by Kate Hewitt
“I do like Indian.”
“Good.”
“Let me get the plates.”
It was both strange and wonderful to be fetching two sets of plates and cutlery, wearing her comfy clothes and not even minding. Owen had shrugged off his jacket and then nodded towards the wood burner.
“Do you mind if I get that started?”
“No, of course not. I haven’t bothered when it’s just been me.”
He slanted her a smiling look. “But it’s not just you.”
“I know.” She was grinning again. Like a loon.
Owen fetched kindling and wood from the box Jace had provided weeks ago, and soon a merry blaze was crackling away. “Who’s this guy?” he asked as the kitten twined about his ankles and he scooped him up in one hand.
“My nameless kitten. The one I told you about before. He was feral—his mother dropped him in the garden and I had to take care of him.”
“But you didn’t give him a name?”
“Any suggestions?” Emily asked as she started doling out the food.
“Hmm.” Owen inspected the kitten seriously, making Emily smile. Again. “How about Tiger?”
“Tigers are white and orange, though, not black.”
“Not because he looks like a tiger. Because of the Castleford Tigers.” She looked at him blankly and he explained, “A rugby league team from West Yorkshire. Black and orange are their colours.”
“I don’t know the first thing about rugby of any sort,” Emily admitted.
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“You’re a big fan?”
“I like to play the odd match. And watch when I can.”
“How about Castleford? To be a little different, because Tiger sounds a bit ordinary.” She took their heaped plates to the table. “I could call him Cass for short. Although I don’t actually know if he’s a boy or girl kitten.”
“You could check, you know.”
“How?”
Owen gave her a look and she started to laugh. He scooped up the kitten, gave a look at his backside, and then turned back to her. “You’ve got a girl here, so I think Cass fits the bill.”
“Cass it is, then.” Owen washed his hands and came to the table and somehow Emily couldn’t keep from saying, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I.” The look he gave her was warm and lingering, and made her remember exactly how it had felt to be kissed by him. And made her want to be again.
She looked down at her chicken korma and rice, and realised she was still smiling.
*
Owen hadn’t been planning to visit Emily tonight. All day he’d been so consumed with sandbagging the pub and moving stock from the cellar, he hadn’t even thought about her that much.
And then he’d done all he could do, and locked the doors, and realised there was no other place he’d rather be but here, with her. And so, without caring about how keen he might seem, popping by unannounced the Monday after their date, he’d picked up the takeaway and hightailed it over here. And like Emily, he was glad he’d done it.
“Have you talked to your mum this week?” he asked as they started their takeaways, and Emily shook her head.
“No, although I’ve rung the nurse every day. She said I might be able to visit tomorrow.”
“Might…?”
Emily grimaced. “Depending on how my mum is in the morning, I suppose.”
Owen nodded slowly. “How do you feel about that?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know.” She toyed with her fork, separating a few grains of rice with its tines. “I mean, I want to see her. And of course I want her to get better. But it will feel…tumultuous. And that can be hard.”
“I can imagine. Although actually I can’t.”
“Can’t you?” Emily gave him a surprisingly shrewd look. “You mentioned your dad had a drinking problem. That must have been a bit up and down.”
“Ye-es, but it wasn’t like your mum, from the sounds of it.” He didn’t want to equate his situation with hers, and yet Emily wasn’t having his rather obvious prevarication.
“But maybe it was, in some ways. I’m realising,” she explained slowly, “that I’m not as terribly unique as I thought. All during my childhood and even later, I thought everyone else had a happy family. A normal life. And I never got to know anyone well enough really to think differently. But since coming here to Wychwood…I’ve realised that everyone has their baggage. Their burdens. And it was arrogant of me to think I was the only one.”
“I’d hardly say it was arrogant,” Owen protested. “Naïve, perhaps.”
“Fine. Naïve, then. So tell me what your childhood was like, Owen. I want to know.” She looked determined and interested, and here he was, feeling reluctant. It was so much easier to make this about her.
“What do you want to know exactly?” he asked. More prevarication.
“You said you grew up in a small town in Wales…”
“A village, really. A mining village. My father worked in the mines until they closed.”
“I didn’t even realise people did that anymore. I thought all the mines closed about a hundred years ago.”
“Many of them did. Not all.”
“And what was that like? Living in a mining village?”
He shrugged, feeling twitchy all of a sudden. “Normal, I suppose, since I didn’t know anything else. But also…grim. Everybody wanted to leave, but nobody ever did. And after the mines closed, most of the men were unemployed and bitter. Not a good combination.”
“Is that why your father drank?”
“He always drank. He was one of those larger-than-life types, and he was even more so when he’d had a couple of pints. A bit like your mum that way—when he was on form, he was loads of fun. When he wasn’t…” He stopped then, because he really didn’t want to go into it.
“That must have been hard.”
Another one of those twitchy shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“What did he do for work afterwards? Once the mine had closed?”
“He did a lot of odd jobs, not all of them legal.” A pause. “He used to work as a beater for the lord of the local manor. He had a hunting lodge up in the hills. My dad would flush out the pheasants.”
Emily cocked her head, her grey-blue gaze sweeping slowly over him. “Is that why you have a thing against the manor set?”
“I don’t have a thing.”
“You do,” Emily insisted. “You said so yourself.”
“Fine.” Owen sat back in his chair, doing his best to relax, or at least look relaxed. He hadn’t expected Emily to ask all these searching questions, and neither had he expected to react the way he was, with a prickly self-defensiveness that was more her vibe than his. And yet this was part of the reason he’d come, wasn’t it? The whole get-to-know-each-other thing? “The la-di-da lordly type had a son. A spoiled arse, if I’m honest.”
“Sounds rather typical.”
“I suppose it was. Anyway, during one of the shoots he was larking about, and his father didn’t do a damned thing. His gun went off when it shouldn’t have, and my father was hit in the leg.”
“Oh no!” Emily covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide with horrified shock. “Was he all right?”
“Eventually, but it broke the bone and he was in hospital for weeks. The lord and his son didn’t even care.” His throat worked, acid burning in his gut at the memory. “He sent my mother fifty pounds as recompense.” Which had been a lot of money for them then, but the injustice, the insult of it, had cut deep, and still did now.
“That’s so unfair. I’m not surprised you’ve got a chip on your shoulder.” She paused, seeming to choose her words with care. “But Henry’s not like that.”
“Actually, he was exactly like that.” Emily looked up at him in surprise. “Although it’s not for me to say.”
“What do you mean?”
Owen knew he shouldn’t have said anything. “Ask Jace,” he said.
“Jace…?”
“He’s had some experience with Henry.”
“What, Henry shot him?” She sounded disbelieving, and yet in some ways she wasn’t that far off.
“No, not that. But…something. I’m not saying he hasn’t changed, only that seven years ago he seemed as hard and uncaring as my good Lord Westcott did. And Jace bore the brunt.”
Emily frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t my place.”
“If I asked Henry, would he mind?”
Owen shrugged. “I don’t actually know. I’ve lived in Wychwood for nearly fifteen years and I’ve never spoken to the man.”
“Really?” Emily’s frown deepened. “That should change.”
“Don’t worry, I haven’t minded.” He needed to change the subject before Henry Trent of all people derailed their date.
Emily must have been thinking along the same lines, because she straightened, shaking off her unease about Henry, and asked, “And how did your mother cope with it all? Six children, too…”
Unfortunately that was not the kind of change in subject he was looking for. He didn’t want to talk about his mum, either.
“She…struggled.” He looked away because he didn’t trust the expression on his face. “It was difficult.” And that was all he could say about that. He wasn’t going to tell Emily how he couldn’t save his mum, how she ended up blaming him for something that had been, arguably at least, his fault. How he’d grown up watching her pain, just as Emily had with her own mother. Nope, he was definitely not going to say any of that.
“I’m sorry, Owen.” Emily reached over and put her hand on top of his, a small, gentle touch that he knew instinctively was a big deal for her.
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but this was, and he was done talking about the drama of families. He squeezed her hand, and she smiled.
They chatted about nothing nearly as intense as they finished their dinner, and then moved over to Emily’s rather angular sofa to enjoy the dancing flames of the wood burner. It felt both weird and right when Emily scooted next to him and he put his arm around her, enjoying the feel of her snuggled close, her head on his shoulder. They were silent as they watched the fire, and it felt enough—or almost—to simply sit here with her in the warmth and the dark.
Then Cass scrambled up into their laps, and he let out a laugh. It just felt too perfect.
“I don’t think I’ve been happier,” Emily said quietly. She tilted her face up to meet his gaze, a furrow bisecting her forehead. “Does that scare you?”
“Should it?”
“I don’t know.”
For an answer, because he didn’t have another one, he kissed her—a gentle brush of their lips. At least that was what it was meant to be. But as with every time he’d kissed Emily David, it turned into something much more. Her hand crept upwards, her fingers wrapping around his neck as he deepened the kiss and their bodies shifted on the sofa. Blood roared and sang as she pressed even closer to him, and reluctantly Owen lifted his head.
“We should probably stop.”
“Should we?” A smile tilted her lips upwards but he saw the hesitation in her eyes and he knew he’d made the right call. “I’m not a child, you know,” she added, and Owen let out a laugh that was mostly groan.
“Trust me, I know that.”
She chewed her lip, scanning his face. “I’m not fragile, either.”
“Emily, you’re one of the strongest people I know.” And yet strong people could be fragile, too. And the last thing, the very last thing in the entire world Owen wanted to do, was hurt her. “This is our second date, you know. We don’t have to rush.”
“I know.”
“Anyway, I meant to ask about your mum. You’re visiting her tomorrow?”
“Assuming she still wants me to, yes.”
“Why don’t I drive you there?”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’ll just sit in the foyer again, you know.”
“I know. I’m coming to like that foyer. Very comfortable chairs.” He smiled, and she smiled too, and then he brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. “No one should go through that kind of thing alone. The pub’s still closed tomorrow. Let me drive you.”
She hesitated, her smile like a flower that had only just begun to unfurl. “Okay,” she said at last. “Thank you.”
Chapter Sixteen
The heavy rain had downgraded to a misty drizzle by eight o’clock the next morning, when Owen pulled up to Willoughby Close in his van.
“How’s The Drowned Sailor?” Emily asked as she climbed inside the passenger side. Owen, she saw, had made somewhat of an effort at tidying up—the paper coffee cups were gone, along with some of the rubbish from the floor.
“Not yet drowned,” he returned with a quick smile. He looked and smelled gorgeous—fresh and damp from a shower, wearing his usual rugby shirt and jeans. “There’s still water in the cellar, but I think it’s under control.”
“Good.”
“How are you feeling about today?” Owen asked as he drove out of the close.
“I don’t know. I’m not letting myself think about it too much, really.”
“What happened the last time your mum stopped her medication?”
Emily sighed as she gazed out the window streaked with raindrops. Spring was coming to Wychwood-on-Lea, daffodils and tulips unfurling under the drizzle, everything muted and grey and yet still coming to life. Spring happened anyway, no matter what was going in life. It was a heartening thought.
“She was doing really well,” she began after a moment. “She had a job, which isn’t all that usual, teaching pottery at a day centre for the elderly. She was feeling normal, if that’s a word I should use. I don’t know if it is, or what normal is, for that matter. But she wasn’t flattened the way the medication can make her—as if she’s viewing everything from behind a gauzy curtain. That’s how she’s described it. Anyway.” Emily blew out a breath. “I think she felt well enough—confident enough—to stop taking the pills. She went cold turkey, which is never a good idea, and it resulted in what her consultant called ‘a sudden and severe psychotic episode.’ I wasn’t there—I got a phone call, just like I did this time. She’d been at work, and she just…” Emily shrugged, her throat tightening as she recalled the consultant’s description of what had happened. “Screaming. Throwing things. Hurting herself. It took three aides to restrain her.”
“I’m sorry, Emily.” Owen’s tone was low and heartfelt, and it would have made her eyes sting if she’d let it.
“So am I. It came out of the blue that time. This time I had warning.”
“You can’t beat yourself up over that.”
“It’s easy to say that.” Just as it had been easy to dismiss her own fears, because she was far away and sometimes she needed a break from worrying about her mother, a realisation that made her feel only guiltier.
“I know how easy it is,” Owen said quietly, and Emily turned to look at him.
“You feel guilty.”
He shrugged his assent. “Yes. I suppose.”
“About your dad?”
A pause, heavy, like a weight in the air. “My whole family, really, but yes, my dad.”
“Why?”
Owen flexed his hands on the steering wheel, his gaze straight ahead and yet restless. “For a lot of reasons.”
“Will you tell me at least some of them?”
“I got out. I suppose that’s the main one.”
“From Cwmparc?”
“From that whole way of life.”
“That’s not your fault.”
Owen shot her a knowing look, a faint smile curving his mouth although his eyes looked sad. “Exactly.”
It was strange to think that she and Owen were similar, Emily reflected as they drove in silence towards Oxford, and then on to London. She’d assumed from the beginning that they were complete opposites, and that was
why they clicked. And they were opposites, in many ways, but maybe that was simply because they’d developed different coping strategies.
The traffic increased as they made their way into London, and so did Emily’s anxiety. She had no idea what her mother would be like when she saw her; the last time she’d thrown a pitcher of water at her head.
“Nervous?” Owen asked with a small smile, and Emily nodded.
“I have no idea what to expect.”
“The nurse wouldn’t have asked you to visit if she didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“I know.” Two hours ago, when Emily had rung, the nurse Karen had told her Naomi was “stable”—a word that was reassuring without being terribly encouraging. Emily had no idea what stable looked like when it came to a conversation.
Owen parked the van and then took a seat in the entrance hall as usual, giving Emily a wry and encouraging smile. “I really like this chair,” he told her, and she couldn’t help but laugh, a nervous little giggle that had him reaching over and squeezing her hand. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “And I’m here if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
Emily walked to the ward on watery legs, and the nurse Karen greeted her with a friendly smile. “Naomi has definitely been more stable since we’ve started her on the new medication,” she explained to her as they headed towards her mother’s room. “She’s on a regular doze of olanzapine, which has helped stabilise her moods, so there are fewer ups and downs.”
“Okay,” Emily said. “What are the potential side effects?”
Karen gave an understanding grimace. “There’s a wide range, as there are with any of these medications. At the moment we’ve noted that Naomi seems a bit drowsy, and may have some issues with her memory and speech.”
Was that all? Emily bit her lip to keep from saying something sarcastic. It wasn’t Karen’s fault, and in any case Emily already knew how the side effects of the medications her mother was prescribed could be almost as bad as the disorder itself. Almost, but definitely not quite. Yet once they started to wear off, and they had to be changed or the dosage upped, then the whole agonising process of adjustment began again. It was a terrible, never-ending cycle that both Naomi and Emily were desperately tired of.